Short broken brush strokes,
cobalt / egg yolk / thinned-out
black, the starry night sky
in the south of France.
Here, in Virginia, far above
my head, little bits of butter
sizzle in night’s cold cast iron
skillet.  The Milky Way’s
almost so close you could
walk on it, follow the stepping
stones, where everyone 
you’ve ever loved is waiting.
But gravity has pinned you 
to the dew-soaked grass. Up
above, the stars continue
to pulse, to dance.  And look,
here are our old friends, Orion
and Cassiopeia. . . .


-first appeared in the San Pedro Poetry Review

These short sharp brush strokes are exactly 
the color of the pain radiating up 
from my shredded ankle, ligaments shot 
to hell and gone.  Cap Nègre’s in Saint-Clair, 
near Saint-Tropez, where Cross and Signac 
developed Divisionism.  My ankle’s divided 
from the rest of my body, shooting out 
sparks with every step.  In Cross’s charcoal 
and watercolor on cream laid paper, the trees 
and promontory vibrate, every brush stroke
licked with light.  While my ankle explodes
in all the colors of the trees: wince blue, 
livid magenta, jaundice. 


-first appeared in Kestrel